


Maps for the Getaway

by cheesethesecond



Category: Kamen Rider Build
Genre: But THEY'RE GONNA, Everyone just has a lot of feelings, Identity Issues, Ignores Basically Everything Post-Series, M/M, Post-Series, Sharing a Bed, Still figuring out that they wanna kiss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 21:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20495306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesethesecond/pseuds/cheesethesecond
Summary: Banjou and Sento navigate a new world, new feelings, and new identities. (Except maybe nothing's really that new after all).Or: back at Nascita, after the war.





	Maps for the Getaway

**Author's Note:**

> Are we all still into post-Build fic that entirely ignores everything that came after the series itself? I SURE HOPE SO. 
> 
> I started this immediately after I watched Build, left it alone for a few months, and am now returning to it because I MISS BUILD YOU GUYS. Title's from Maps for the Getaway by Andrew McMahon, which is the most post-series Banjou/Sento song if I've ever heard one. I'm really hoping to get the second chapter of this wrapped up and posted in a reasonable amount of time. I'm a nervous baby who needs encouragement all the time, so your comments are welcome and appreciated <3

When it’s all said and done—Evolt gone, their lives reset, the world brand new—Ryuuga can’t seem to wrap his mind around anything other than Sento.

Sento is here. Sento is _alive_. Not Satou Tarou or Katsuragi Takumi—though they might be, too; Ryuuga hasn’t checked, frankly doesn’t care—but _Sento_. His Sento, the same arrogant, self-sacrificing, insufferable, brilliant hero standing in front of him, grinning from ear to ear like they hadn’t just brought about the end of the world.

Well, the end of _their_ world, at least. This new world will keep on spinning, and Ryuuga’s still dizzy with the revelation that they’re both allowed to spin with it.

Sento flips his bike open and drives them outside the city, where they find a quiet park and walk in aimless circles, bumping shoulders and bickering playfully over Sento’s retelling of their story. Ryuuga keeps getting lightheaded any time a part of him brushes up against a part of Sento, and he’s not sure why: the sheer desperate relief of having survived? Of having Sento in arm’s reach after fearing, albeit briefly, that he was all alone? Or maybe some lingering, deep-seeded echo from their RabbitDragon form? Regardless, he goes out of his way to touch Sento, slinging an arm around his shoulder, kicking his ankle, ruffling his hair. Sento either doesn’t notice, doesn’t mind, or is just as eager to keep Ryuuga close by.

They meander without a destination, laughing at everything and nothing, blissed out by the absence of a ticking clock, the promise of a deadlier weapon, friends in danger and new foes around every corner. They’re giddy with the freedom to make simple choices—left or right, forwards of backwards, yes or no—that don’t have life or death consequences. They’re alive. They’re together. They saved the world. What else could possibly matter?

But eventually, the sun sets. The wind kicks up. Ryuuga tugs his sleeves down around his knuckles and notices how Sento shivers at the chill, rubbing at the goosebumps on his arms. He reaches for his flannel to offer Sento before realizing it’s not tied around his waist. Neither is his jacket. They have nothing but the clothes on their back.

Ryuuga clenches his jaw. It doesn’t matter. They’ll figure it out. They saved the _world_. This is nothing, a minor inconvenience. He’s not going to spoil their reunion—their _resurrection_—by bringing up something as petty as a change of clothes.

But the mood has already shifted. Sento looks beyond tired, his eyelids heavy and shoulders slumped. He’s radiating exhaustion, and only then does Ryuuga notice the same weary feeling in his bones, a weight he’s not sure one good night’s sleep will lighten. He stops and reaches out, tapping his fingers against Sento’s elbow, and Sento stops, too, sighing deeply.

“Okay, Sento?” Ryuuga asks.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sento scoffs, though he won’t look Ryuuga in the eye. “I’m fine, of course.”

Ryuuga’s stomach growls. He winces. “Well, I’m kinda hungry.”

Sento rolls his eyes. “You’re always hungry.”

“Aren’t you?”

Sento shrugs.

Ryuuga rubs at the back of his neck. _So what now? What do we do next?_ But he won’t ask, won’t put that responsibility back on Sento, won’t make him solve another one of their problems so soon. It’s just…

Ryuuga’s not actually very good at fending for himself anymore.

Once, just to get under his skin, Sento hypothesized that, had Ryuuga made it all the way to Hokuto after his prison break, he’d have been arrested again within the week, following either his stomach or his loneliness straight back into captivity. It made Ryuuga bristle at the time, but he’s come to realize just how right Sento might have been, particularly about the latter: he’s become embarrassingly accustomed to having people around who actually give a damn about him.

Ryuuga shoves his hands in his pockets and scuffs his heel against the ground. “So…should we…find something to eat, I guess?”

Sento raises an eyebrow. “Do you have any money, Banjou?”

“No.”

Sento lifts his other brow and cocks his head.

Ryuuga scowls. “Alright, then, let’s get some money.”

“How? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Then let’s go to sleep and get money in the morning!”

Sento laughs, the kind of laugh that means he’s playing with Ryuuga, teasing him like a kitten with a string. It’s infuriating, and endearing, and Ryuuga hates it as much as he never wants to go another day without hearing it. “Okay, musclehead, where should we sleep?”

“How should I know?”

“I thought you were trying to be the brains of this operation.”

“Why would you think that?” Ryuuga throws his hands in the air and spins helplessly in place, before pointing triumphantly at a nearby park bench. “There!”

Sento laughs again, softer this time, more affectionate than exasperated. “I suppose that’s the best you can do,” he says, and pats Ryuuga on the back. “Come on then.”

They sit close, arms and legs pressed together. Sento tips his head back and whines. “This is terrible."

Ryuuga shifts around, struggling to get comfortable. “It’s not so bad.”

“It’s awful. It’s the worst.”

And Ryuuga can’t help but laugh, because it wasn’t so long ago they were battling an interdimensional tyrant hellbent on destroying the planet, and Sento thinks _this_ is the worst. “I guess you’re right.”

Sento grins at the praise. “Of course I’m right,” he says, and abruptly curls into Ryuuga’s side, resting his head on Ryuuga’s shoulder. “I’m going to sleep while you keep an eye out.”

“Huh? Hey! That’s not fair. I found this bench, I should get to sleep first.”

“You found a bench in a park. _I _fought Evolt.”

“I was there, too, in case you forgot,” Ryuuga grumbles.

Sento hums. “You’re right. Technically speaking, I had to fight you _and_ Evolt.”

Ryuuga sputters. “That’s not how it…I _was_ Evolt! Or…Evolt was me. I was possessed! Um…absorbed. Whatever. It’s not my fault.”

“And then I had to be inside your head. What an exhausting experience.”

“Oi, what’s wrong with my head?”

“Shh,” Sento says, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m sleeping.”

“Liar.”

Sento answers with an exaggerated snore.

“You’re the worst.”

Sento simply scrunches his nose and tucks his legs up on the bench, leaning further into Ryuuga’s space. It’s stupidly adorable, and Ryuuga hides a smile behind his hand, propping his chin on his palm and pretending to pout in case Sento notices.

Sento must’ve been even more tired than he let on, because he’s asleep within minutes, breathing deeply and evenly against Ryuuga’s arm. The temperature keeps falling, and Sento shivers, burrowing closer in his sleep. Ryuuga wraps an arm around him and rubs his hand up and down his back, trying to chafe some warmth into him. He forgets how small Sento is, how slight; his oversized ego and Build’s incredible power often make him seem larger than life, all too untouchable. Seeing Sento this vulnerable does dumb things to Ryuuga’s heart.

The minutes tick by, one hour into two, and despite his best efforts, Ryuuga starts to nod off. He tries fending off the fatigue by biting his tongue, pinching the inside of his wrist, slapping at his face, but it’s no use: he keeps catching himself listing sideways, eyes fluttering closed and chin nodding to his chest before startling awake again, gripping the back of Sento’s shirt in his fist. He needs to stay awake. He needs to protect them. But he can only fight the adrenaline crash for so long.

Eventually he falls asleep in earnest, and wakes with the sun, rubbing his eyes and shaking the fog from his head. A jolt of panic shudders through his chest, but Sento sleeps on beside him, safe and sound, his forehead pressed to Ryuuga’s neck. Ryuuga buries his nose in Sento’s hair and sends a silent thanks to whatever force in the universe continues to keep them together. Wouldn’t that be something, he thinks, to survive wars and aliens and the end of everything, only to be separated by mere _humans_ while they slept? He smiles a little to himself, at how silly his paranoia seems in the light of day.

It’s only then that he feels someone watching them.

He sees the young couple out of the corner of his eye, a man and a woman holding hands and coffee cups and whispering to each other, blinking bewilderedly at Ryuuga. The man catches him looking and grins, waves, as the girl smacks him on the arm and hides her face in her hand. Ryuuga instinctively tightens his arm around Sento, his heart hammering.

“What do you want?” he asks, his voice rough with sleep, when the couple approaches.

“You’re Banjou Ryuuga,” the man says, obviously starstruck. The woman smiles, sheepish and indulgent. “I was at your match last night! You were amazing.”

Ryuuga stiffens. He shakes his head. “Sorry, you’re wrong. I’m not him.”

The man laughs. “It’s okay, dude. I don’t want anything. I’m just a big fan! Can I shake your hand?” He extends his hand, and Ryuuga scowls at it.

The woman notices Sento’s slumped posture and frowns. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, don’t worry about him,” Ryuuga says, fighting the urge to curl bodily over Sento. _These are normal people_, he reminds himself. _A couple on their way to work, or out for an early morning stroll. Something you would’ve done with Kasumi. There’s no war. You’re not in any danger_. But his adrenaline is already surging, his fight-or-flight reflex so ingrained now, it’s impossible to shut off. “We’d just like a little privacy.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” the man says with a wink, and Ryuuga wants to punch him in the face. He feels himself getting warmer, dangerously so, until, suddenly, a hand moves to cover his own. Sento continues to feign sleep, but Ryuuga senses the tension in his shoulders.

“Maybe we should go,” the woman says, taking the man’s arm.

“I just want a handshake. Is that so hard?” The man pushes his hand closer to Ryuuga’s face, his mouth pinched with irritation.

Ryuuga knows he should play along, shake the kid’s hand and let this world’s Banjou Ryuuga deal with any gossip that follows. But he doesn’t want to. He can’t—won’t—be the Banjou Ryuuga he was before he met Kiryuu Sento. Not ever again.

“Like I said,” Ryuuga says, pushing the man’s hand away. “I’m not him.”

The man glowers. “Okay. Fine. I didn’t think you’d be such an asshole.”

“I’m not an asshole.”

“Bet that’s not what your girlfriend will say when she sees you with _him_,” the man spits, nodding at Sento and reaching for the phone in his pocket.

Ryuuga snaps. He shoves Sento off him and jumps to his feet, grabbing the man by the jacket collar and shaking him so hard the coffee cup falls from his hand, its contents splashing at their feet. “You leave him out of this,” Ryuuga snarls. He feels like he’s on fire. “And Kasumi, too, you leave them both alone.”

“_Banjou_,” Sento hisses from behind him, fully alert.

“Yeah, sorry, okay, sorry,” the man stammers, trying to pry Ryuuga’s hands off him. “Jeez, all I wanted was a handshake.”

“Well, you’re not getting one!” Ryuuga shoves the man backwards. “Because I’m not him, okay? I’m not who you want me to be!”

The couple hurries away, frightened by the outburst.

“I’m not him, alright? I’m not_ him_!” Ryuuga yells after them once more, then hangs his head, his hands flexing out their desire to hit something.

There’s a long, tense moment of silence, and then Sento is at his side.

“So much for being inconspicuous,” Sento says, not unkindly.

Ryuuga winces. “Sorry. I’m an idiot.”

“It can’t be helped.” Sento puts a hand on Ryuuga’s shoulder and squeezes. “But if it’s any consolation, you’re the Banjou _I_ want you to be.”

And that’s just so reassuringly _Sento_—smug and sarcastic and devastatingly sincere all at once—that a lump catches in Ryuuga’s throat. It’s not that he needs to be this world’s one true Banjou Ryuuga; but he doesn’t want to _not_ be Banjou Ryuuga at all. He thought it might be easier, once, having a new name, a new identity, a clean slate. But Banjou Ryuuga is someone Kiryuu Sento wants him to be, and now he doesn’t want to give that up.

“I guess that's all that matters, huh?” he says, shaking his head and clearing his throat, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes with the side of his hand.

Sento gives him a moment to compose himself before stretching his arms over his head and sighing. “Well, we certainly can’t sleep here again. Your dumb braids are too recognizable.”

“You’re just lucky we haven’t run into any Lynks fans,” Ryuuga grumbles. “Groupies are scary, man. They’ll want a lot more than a handshake.”

Sento snorts, his eyes bright with amusement, and relief washes over Ryuuga like a flood, powerful and sudden. Sento is smiling, so everything must be okay.

“This does bring up an interesting dilemma,” Sento says, hands on his hips, and Ryuuga can practically see the gears turning in his head. “I can still be Kiryuu Sento, because there is no Kiryuu Sento in this world. You,” he pokes Ryuuga’s shoulder, “cannot be Banjou Ryuuga.”

Ryuuga groans and slumps back down onto the bench. “This sucks. That other punk didn’t save the world. _My_ name should get to be Banjou Ryuuga. Why can’t he pick a different one?”

“Maybe you should go ask him,” Sento deadpans.

“Maybe you should shut up.”

“Well, unless you can figure out how to explain being in two places at once—which I _sincerely_ doubt, given your lack of aptitude for anything even remotely scientific—”

“_Sento_.”

“You’ll have to think of an alias.”

“I am _not_ wearing any more disguises.”

“No need. I think I know of a place where we can lie low.”

“Really?”

Sento smiles. “Follow me.”

*

“This is your idea of lying low?” Ryuuga asks, gaping up at Café Nascita’s unmistakable red awning, its tiny patio, its sandwich board and sunny logo. The door swings open, and a group bustles out around them. “There’s…customers?”

“The coffee is excellent,” Sento says, a little wistful.

“Huh? You mean you’ve already been here?”

Sento nods. “I had to see if…” His mouth twists, and he looks down at the ground.

Ryuuga steels himself. “Are…are they alive?”

Sento nods again.

“Do they remember—”

“No.”

And Ryuuga’s heart aches, partly for his memories of Misora—or rather, her memories of him, lost to shifting time and space—but mostly for Sento, staring at the café door like, if he waits long enough, it’ll become the home that was taken from him, return the family he lost. The bell above the door jingles, and more customers exit, smiling and laughing, and Ryuuga irrationally wants to hate them. They don’t deserve this place and these people. Sento does. Sento deserves the world, any world he wants, but he’s stuck with this one. He’s stuck with Ryuuga.

“So if they don’t remember us, why are we here?” Ryuuga asks. He wants to leave, to get that mournful look off Sento’s face, but also to ease the guilt starting to curdle in his own stomach.

Sento squares his shoulders, a determined glint returning to his eyes. “We’re getting a job.”

Ryuuga blinks. “Huh?”

But Sento has already disappeared into the café. Ryuuga has no choice but to follow.

The inside of Nascita looks exactly as it should, except it’s _busy_. All the tables are occupied, and the room echoes with bright, lively chatter, the aroma of coffee beans warm and inviting. Behind the counter, Isurugi Soichi is pouring coffee, donning a familiar hat and apron, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. Ryuuga feels caught between homesick and horrified at the sight of him, memories of shared meals and encouraging smiles warping with peals of chilly laughter, a flippant _ciao_, a fiery cage that kept him trapped and silent while his body housed Evolt’s furious consciousness and did its bidding. His breath snags in his lungs. His hands start to shake.

“Easy, Banjou,” Sento mutters, wrapping his fingers around Ryuuga’s wrist. “He’s just a café owner. Not an astronaut or…anything else. I promise.”

“I know,” Ryuuga says, taking a deep breath and nodding furiously. “I know, I—”

“Table for two?” a cheerful voice interrupts.

Something about Misora’s presence has always set Ryuuga at ease, even, inexplicably, as she’s threatening to cut him. This Misora is identical to the Misora of their former world—the bouncing ponytail, the ruffled dress, the bright smile—save for the slightly-haunted shadow missing from her eyes and the gold bangle absent from her wrist. Seeing her here, alive and well, releases some tension Ryuuga hadn’t realized he’d been carrying.

“Hello, again,” Sento says, charm on full, letting go of Ryuuga’s wrist; Ryuuga instantly misses its warmth. “Actually, I was hoping to speak to the owner.”

Ryuuga sees the exact moment Misora recognizes Sento—not as _Sento_, but as a repeat customer, and one she’d hoped not to see again, judging from the way her eyes narrow. She remains polite, but they’ve obviously raised her hackles. “He’s very busy today. If you could come back—”

“Misora!” Soichi calls, spotting Sento and Ryuuga and waving them over. “Nonsense! Let me say hi to my new favorite customer.”

Sento grimaces, then plasters a stiff smile onto his face as they take a seat at the counter. Misora hovers, pretending to wipe down an already-clean mug and watching them out of the corner of her eye. While Soichi pours coffee for them, his back turned, Sento leans over to Ryuuga and whispers, “By the way, he thinks I’m Satou Tarou.”

“_What?_” Ryuuga hisses back. “You couldn’t have told me that _before_—”

“Here we are!” Soichi sets two cups on the counter and winks at Sento. “On the house.”

“That’s not necessary,” Sento insists, even though it _is_—they still don’t have any money, as Ryuuga reminds him with a kick under the table. Sento kicks him back and doubles down. “We can pay for it.”

“I insist,” Soichi says. “All I ask is that you enjoy it. And maybe tell a few friends how good it was. Maybe a few _fans_, hmm?”

“We can’t give away too much free coffee, Dad,” Misora says pleasantly while glaring daggers at Ryuuga. She’s white-knuckling the mug in her hands, and Ryuuga averts his eyes, staring down at his coffee like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. Misora’s presence might be _mostly_ reassuring, but she’s still scary as hell when she wants to be, with or without Vernage riding shotgun.

Soichi waves her off. “Of course not. Only to our _star_ customers. Our customers who _rock_.” He winks again.

“Oh for—” Sento pushes his coffee away, and Soichi frowns. “I know you think I’m Satou Tarou, and I haven’t done anything to dispel you of that notion. But my name is Kiryuu Sento, and this is my…” He pauses and looks at Ryuuga, something akin to panic in his eyes. “My…”

“I’m his…” Ryuuga starts, then stops. They don’t look like brothers. They don’t have jobs, so can’t be associates. They don’t have _homes_, so can’t be roommates. _I’m his friend_, he thinks, but that’s not quite enough to explain what they’re doing there together, and not quite enough to encompass the whole of what Sento means to him. _I’m his partner. His right hand. His best match_. “I’m Ryuuga,” he blurts, dodging the notion altogether. “Uh. O-Ogura Ryuuga.”

A few emotions flicker rapid-fire across Sento’s face—surprise, guilt, relief, and something a little prickly Ryuuga has trouble placing—before realizing they’re not in the position to be having this particular existential crisis. He turns back to Soichi. “We’re looking for work. We’ve…lost our home. Kicked out and left with nothing. We just need to get back on our feet.”

“We slept on a park bench last night,” Ryuuga chimes in, trying to be helpful. Sento smacks him on the leg. “What? We did!”

“You don’t have to lay it on so thick,” Sento chides.

Soichi’s brow furrows. “You’re that hard off?”

“We—” Ryuuga’s stomach chooses that moment to emit a loud gurgle. He settles a hand over it, attempting to quiet it, but stomach acid feels like it’s about to gnaw its way through his gut. “Sorry.”

Soichi’s eyes soften. “When was the last time you boys ate?”

_Before Evolt_, Ryuuga thinks, but knows better than to say that aloud. Sento stays quiet, too, and their silence must be answer enough, because in a matter of minutes, two bowls of ramen sit steaming before them. It’s all Ryuuga can manage not to tip the whole thing over and inhale it at once. Sento eats with similar gusto, and Soichi watches them curiously, as if shifting puzzle pieces around in his head. Misora returns to her tables, though every so often she’ll reroute herself in their direction, listening now with more intrigue than outright disdain.

“So you’re really not Satou Tarou?” Soichi leans forward on his crossed arms. “The resemblance is uncanny.”

“Hmm.” Sento swallows a mouthful of noodles before answering. “I get that a lot. Weird coincidence.”

“Why did you let me think you were?”

Sento shrugs, not as thrown by the question as Ryuuga would’ve been. “Because you were happy to see me.”

There’s a current of truth to Sento’s words that makes Ryuuga want to throw things. He settles for slurping his noodles extra-loudly, and sticking his tongue out when Sento shoots him a look.

“So why here? What brought you to my little café?” Soichi asks, a gentle inquisitiveness to his tone that keeps it from sounding like an interrogation. “Surely there are better employment options.”

“It seemed friendly,” Sento says, poking at the egg in his broth. “Cheerful. Like somewhere I’ve…been before. Maybe in a dream. Or another lifetime.”

A pang shoots through Ryuuga’s heart, and he fights the urge to grab Sento’s hand beneath the table, to pull him close, Soichi and Misora be damned. Instead, he wraps his foot around Sento’s ankle, and Sento doesn’t shake it loose.

“Well,” Soichi says, “we’ve had more customers this year than ever, so we could certainly use the extra hands. But the life of a café owner isn’t luxurious. I can’t pay you much.”

“That’s okay!” Sento hurries to assure him. “We don’t need much.”

“But it sounds like you do. A place to stay, food to eat, clothes to wear.” Soichi looks at them over the tops of his glasses, and Ryuuga is reminded of a father—not his own, necessarily, a man he barely remembers, but _someone’s _father, stern and loving and watchful. “The world isn’t always kind to those who need so much.”

“I…” Sento slumps under the weight of how miserable their circumstances really are. “I guess I—”

“Hey.” Ryuuga ducks his head, waits until Sento looks at him, and smiles. “We’ll be alright. Aren’t we always?”

A smile quirks at the corner of Sento’s mouth—it makes a little bubble of warmth pop inside Ryuuga—and Soichi nods, apparently making up his mind. “Tomorrow is Saturday, our busiest day, and I’ll need you both at your best. Can’t have you falling asleep on the job.” He beckons them around to the other side of the counter. “There’s a mattress in the basement—”

“Dad!” Misora rushes to Soichi’s side, abandoning all pretense of ignoring them, her eyes wide with disbelief. “We don’t even know them!”

“I understand, Misora.” Soichi places a hand on her shoulder. “But the world has been unkind to them. We can be kinder.”

Soichi doesn’t lead them downstairs through the refrigerator, which Ryuuga was half expecting, but through a normal door in a tucked-away corner of the café. As they descend the stairs, Ryuuga is thrown by the sparseness of the space. Gone are the chalkboards, the tools, the purification machine, even the homey touches that adorned the bedroom walls. There are a few boxes scattered here and there, filled with café supplies and personal knick-knacks, a futon rolled in the corner, and a pile of blankets stacked beside it. The rest is bare.

“It’s not so much,” Soichi says. “But I like to have a place set aside, should anyone need it.”

“You take in many lost souls?” Sento asks.

“Not many, no. But more than Misora would like. I’m all she has, and she’s protective of me, but finding people I can help out…it’s something I’ve always felt compelled to do.” He laughs, scratching at the back of his neck. “Who knows? Maybe I’m making up for something terrible I did in a past life.”

Neither Sento nor Ryuuga has anything to say to that.

Soichi gives them a quick tour of the basement and leaves them to get some rest. Ryuuga thinks that sounds like an excellent idea. A door along the opposite wall leads to a tiny bathroom, where he washes the grime off his face and hands. When he returns, Sento is sitting on the unfolded mattress, head bowed, hands pressed tightly between his knees and bottom lip caught in his teeth.

“Hey,” Ryuuga says. He sits beside him with an exaggerated _oof_. “Why are you pouting?”

Sento glares at him. “I’m not pouting.”

“Yeah you are.” Ryuuga jabs an elbow into his side. “Why? Your plan worked. We have a job and a place to sleep.”

“I know.”

“But…they don’t remember us. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Sento says nothing, just continues to chew on his lip.

“They might, still,” Banjou reassures him, though he’s not at all hopeful himself. “We’ve only been here an hour, Sento. Give it time. Maybe after everything in this new world settles, after all the…particles…shift around and, you know, whatever…quantum crap needs to happen…happens. Maybe then.”

Sento stares at him for a moment, then bursts out laughing.

“Oi!” Ryuuga says, slapping the back of Sento’s head.

“You have even _less_ of an understanding of physics than I previously thought.”

“I was just trying to help!”

“Please. Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“You—" Ryuuga launches himself at Sento, who squawks as they both topple over to the mattress. But before Ryuuga can begin an all-out assault on Sento’s ticklish spots, the door from the café opens and footsteps pad down the stairs. He sits back, and Sento sits up, and together, they watch Misora descend into the room, holding her arms close to her chest.

“Who are you?” she asks after an uncomfortable silence, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why are you here?”

“He told you already,” Ryuuga says, irritated at the interruption; he’d just gotten Sento smiling again. “We’re—”

“Banjou.” Sento cuts him off, gentle but adamant. He stands and goes to Misora, his expression soft and open, and reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder.

She flinches back. “Why do you call him that? Banjou?”

Sento balks a little at his mistake, but recovers quickly enough. “A…nickname.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“He’s not,” Ryuuga says.

Misora takes a step back. “My dad trusts you. And you’re lying to him.”

“He didn’t lie!” Ryuuga insists. “Your dad just assumed—”

“Misora, please understand,” Sento says. “There _are_ things we can’t tell you. Can’t tell anyone. But we promise we won’t hurt you, or him. We would never do that.”

“Why do you say my name like that? Like you know me?” Misora asks. She sounds frightened. For someone living as normal a life as this Misora, in this world, it feels like an overreaction. Ryuuga wonders if, maybe, she’s feeling something she can’t explain, remembering something she never experienced, but shoves the thought away. He’ll leave the hoping to Sento.

Sento’s eyes flutter closed. “I’m sorry. I won’t anymore.”

“He cares about people, you know?” Misora continues, as if Sento hadn’t spoken. “People he shouldn’t. People that want to take advantage of him. That’s just who he is. And I wish I could be like that, I wish I was like him, but…” She shakes her head. “I don’t trust you.”

“That’s alright.” Sento smiles sadly. “You don’t have to. But we still won’t hurt you.”

“You’re right,” she says, as cold and imposing as Vernage ever was. “You won’t.” And with that, she turns and leaves them alone again.

Sento watches the door slam behind her, stares blankly for long enough that Ryuuga goes to him, puts a hand on his arm. “Sento.”

Sento shrugs him off. “I’m fine.”

“Come on, let’s get some sleep.”

“It’s still daytime.”

“You’re not tired? I feel like I could sleep for a year.”

“I…” Sento sighs. “I guess.”

They retreat to the mattress and lie side by side. Ryuuga thinks about reaching down and grabbing Sento’s hand, but doesn’t. They shared a futon during the war, spent most nights curled together like parentheses, sleeping hand-in-hand against the night, but things are different now. He’s not sure what’s considered routine any longer, or what was only allowed because of the exhaustion, the sorrow, the terror pressing down on them in the darkness. He’s not sure what comforts he’s allowed to ask for when the world isn’t ending.

“Ogura Ryuuga,” Sento says quietly, thoughtfully, as if he’s talking to himself.

Ryuuga flushes. “First thing I could come up with.”

“Would you have taken her family name?”

The old ache blossoms in Ryuuga’s chest at the mention of Kasumi, but it’s muted, contained, the sharp edges of grief rounded off by time and circumstance. His memories of her are still tinged with melancholy, but also with fondness, and affection, and a burgeoning understanding that her chapter in his life is over. On bad days, moving on feels like a betrayal. On good days, a necessity. Either way, he knows it’s happening. Knows it’s out of his hands.

“I don’t know,” Ryuuga says. “We hadn’t…discussed it. I think she would’ve taken mine.”

“So predictable,” Sento says. Ryuuga kicks him in the shin, and he snickers. “Maybe her new Banjou is more adventurous.”

“Too bad the old Sento is still an ass.”

Sento goes still, and Ryuuga winces: he’d meant to keep his tone light, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Sento’s lingering guilt over Kasumi’s death still reared its ugly head from time to time. He props himself up on an elbow. “Sento, don’t—”

“Would you be him, if you could?” Sento asks, staring deliberately up at the ceiling. “That new Banjou.”

Ryuuga huffs. “Man, come on. It’s no use thinking about that kind of stuff.”

“But there’s someone out there with your face, living your life,” Sento says, an edge of frustration to his voice. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Should it? Katsuragi is out there, too. Does that bother _you_?”

“That’s different,” Sento scoffs. “I’m not Katsuragi.”

“You were.”

“And then I _wasn’t_. I lost his memories, Banjou.”

“And then got them back.”

“That’s not the same,” Sento dismisses.

“Sure it is,” Ryuuga insists. “You don’t have Katsuragi’s memories of _this_ world. I don’t have this new guy’s, either. I’m not him.”

“But you could’ve been, if…” Sento looks almost pained, desperate for Ryuuga to give him the answer he’s looking for. Ryuuga wishes he knew what that was. “You should _want_ to be. Kasumi…”

“Is alive. And happy.” Ryuuga drops himself back to the mattress with a _whump_. “It’s nice to have a piece of her with me, but that doesn’t mean…it’s not my life anymore, Sento. I don’t want it to be. Not even if your big science brain could make it happen.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Sento mutters. “Why not?”

Ryuuga sighs, and turns his head to look at Sento. “Why do you think?”

Sento blinks. After a moment, he shifts closer, the heat from his body warm against Ryuuga’s arm. “I think you’re an idiot,” he says under his breath.

“Shut up.” Ryuuga smacks Sento’s chest with the back of his hand, lets it linger there, and just like that, the tension is broken.

“Even a genius like me can’t turn back time.”

“We’ve seen weirder, though.”

Sento laughs. “Much, much weirder.” He rolls over, and Ryuuga’s hand falls palm-up in the space between them, an invitation if Sento wants it. Ryuuga closes his eyes, and a moment later, Sento’s fingers slip between his own. He smiles.

“Goodnight, Sento,” he says.

“Goodnight, Banjou.”

He listens to Sento’s steady breathing, dozes to the feeling of Sento’s thumb absently stroking the side of his hand. “Sento,” he murmurs, half-conscious. There’s something he wants to say while it’s warm and quiet and they’re lying close together.

“Hmm,” Sento replies, on the precipice of sleep.

“Hmm,” Ryuuga echoes. Sento squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back. He can’t remember what he was trying to tell Sento, but he’s too tired to care all that much. There will be time enough for it later.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on Twitter @cheesethesecond!


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